


right where I should, where I should be

by 13ways



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: And Louis will oblige, Angst, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Collar, Dom Louis, Girl Crush, Harry likes to be hurt and fucked, Jealous Harry, Jealousy, M/M, Nipple Play, Paddling, Recently Updated, Spanking, Sub Harry, Woman, breath play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 18:00:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15491526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13ways/pseuds/13ways
Summary: One Direction is filming a music video in Miami. Cool, sexy boybander Harry Styles has everything: a beautiful girlfriend, tight skinny jeans, a slick smile and adoring fans. Louis Tomlinson is happy with longterm girlfriend, Eleanor Calder. He's supportive and encouraging in every way. That's what the public sees, anyway. Harry has a need that only Louis can satisfy, and a hole in his heart that goes deep.





	right where I should, where I should be

Miami.

His faded black jeans are shrink-wrapped to long legs. A creamy triangle of skin slashes across his open chest. His smile is devilish and angelic in equal measure. His eyes are inscrutable behind the tortoise-framed Ray Bans. They’re walking, one after the other, like marching soldiers, radiating sex and cool.

The red carpet clears. Photographic flashes pop like fireworks. Fans scream, the crowd parts, and they move to the humming SUV. Paul opens the door. With a last insouciant wave, he scoots into the dark interior, his finger on the hole in his jeans, flesh to naked flesh. She scoots in next to him, eyes down, slim hand fixing a strand of blond hair. Her chin is delicate. She smells of violets.

“How long to the hotel?” he shouts at Paul.

“Depends on traffic,” Paul says. “Maybe thirty minutes. You alright?”

Inside the car, he twists open a bottle of water and drinks half of it. He frowns, because it’s the best way he knows to hide himself. They know his temper. They leave him alone when he’s in a mood. The door slams closed.

 _u there?_ he texts.

He glances up into the rearview mirror, and sees only the impenetrably dark glasses of the driver. Both of them are in disguise, he thinks. He waits, mindlessly scratching his knee through the torn fabric. _Where_ _are_ _you_? _Come_ _on_.

“Do you want to grab a bite?” she asks. “I don’t mind. We can order in.”

She’s looking outside through the darkly tinted window. Her hand absent-mindedly traces a seam in the soft, leather seats.

“Oh, I hadn’t thought about it,” he answers. “You hungry?”

“No,” she says, diffident. “I guess not. Are you?”

“No.”

She’s trying to be nice. Is she nice? He’s been burned too many times, trusted the wrong people and gotten mocked— a rookie mistake. Humiliation. It’s his nature to like people and want to be liked, but after a couple of years, his vulnerability has grown an armor. He’s polite first, suspicious second. A couple of girlfriends later, he wonders why he should even bother. These girls come and go so fast. Their faces blur together, their delicate and pretty names. Besides his family, there aren’t really many he trusts. He likes the names Anne and Gemma.

They sit in silence until they arrive. There’s a crowd waiting in front of the hotel, as expected. Management has called ahead. They’re meant to be seen going in together.

The car slows to a stop. Paul opens the door for them, and he steps out first, his long legs a miracle of anatomic engineering. He’s lucky, he knows. Big eyes, deep dimples, big talent, big shoulders, a bone-chilling howl of a voice. She follows after, slip dress wrapped under his plaid shirt, cheekbones popping above dewy lips. He reaches for her hand, and she hops out expertly, intimate and familiar. They duck their heads. He stops short of the door to take some photos with fans and sign their merch, while she waits silently under the awning. They study her with envy; she’s impossibly beautiful with a minimum of products. Youth, genetics, rarity. They’re the ones in a million, blessed. 

Once inside, Paul escorts them through the lobby and to the elevator. Fans are kept away. She leans in as he puts his hand around her waist. She lays her head on his shoulder. He draws her close and smells the clean loveliness of girls, remembers their breathy softness and curves. Can the fans see them? He feels confusion— for them, for her, for himself. It feels like a ruin. A dusty, beautiful, abandoned disaster. 

“Thanks,” he says, once the doors open. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

“You wanna hang out?” she asks quickly. “A group of us are going swimming later. I mean, you’re welcome to join us. Just for fun.”

“Umm,” he hesitates. A swim is definitely tempting. He’s sweating in this humidity. 

“It’s not a big deal, Harry. Either way.” She fidgets in that way young models always do when they’re around him. “It’s a private pool.”

“Maybe... I gotta go right now,” he gestures vaguely with a hand. “I’ve got... uh... a thing to do. Thanks, though. I'll think about it. Will be in touch.”

“Okay.” Her lashes are wheat-pale. “Bye.”

He walks quickly to the hotel room, fumbling in his pockets for the card key. His skin burns through the holes in his jeans. He wants, he wants. The desire is not nice, it isn’t to be trusted, and he wants it with a deep-seated gnawing.

_Why didn’t he answer the text?_

_Where is he?_

The hotel room has been cleaned, the sheets changed and the beds freshly made. The towels have been picked off the bathroom floor. Their luggage stays near the walls, partially open and unpacked, clean pants and socks mixed in with worn shirts, logo’d shopping bags. So many shopping bags— Louis does like to shop. A smile sneaks in when he thinks about the gifts they buy for each other. The clerks protest when he buys a shirt too small for himself: _are_ _you_ _sure_ _you_ _want_ _this_ _size_ , _sir_? _It_ _might_ _be_ _a_ _tight_ _fit_? Well of course it’s tight. That’s the whole goddamn  _point_. He likes his nipples stimulated by the fabric, his ass shrink-wrapped. Or when he thinks about their shared clothing, always a little loose and long on Lou, his clavicles peeping through the slouching collar, hems ruched at the bottom. It’s a sign that he’s taken— _no touching, please_ — he belongs to one and only one person. Himself.

 _Is he with her?_ He looks around for a note, but finds none. They were going to meet back here this afternoon, to work on the album, with Julian and John and the rest of the boys. He looks at his Rolex: in an hour. The boys will be knocking on the door earlier than that.

He plops himself on the bed, aspen legs crossed in front, hands clasped behind his head. He hasn’t even taken off his boots. He thinks about them— him and her— going shopping together, having lunch, being papped. He thinks about her smug smile, her slim waist, the toss of her head when she hears her name. That long hair. Her sweet perfume.

He bends one knee and plays with the hole in his jeans, picking at the skin, running his finger just inside. His nails freshly clipped, the edges catch on the skin surface and make white marks that raise red. A small battlefield of loneliness— his fingers are the drill sergeants. He laughs morosely: they command no one, they’re powerless. They can’t summon Louis. He feels an appetite for destruction inside himself.

The first time they played like this was during an interview. They were bantering with the interviewer, answering a dumb question about favorite colors or some stupid shit, when he felt a hand cup his knee over the rip in his jeans. His leg jerked, but the hand stayed. A finger stroked the skin under the table, inside the tight Paige jeans. The thumb rubbed the skin, traced the outlines, applying a steady pressure back and forth. He felt himself getting aroused, his belly turning and his smile becoming strained, but Louis’ face showed not a goddamn thing. He kept on joking and bantering as if it were another day in the office— witty, sassy, One Direction-Louis. The other boys knew something was up, though. They stole stealthy glances from Louis to him, listening to his voice getting higher and more tense, wondering whether they were mad at each other, unable to gauge their mood. He was surprised how hard he could get from Louis masturbating his knee— a fucking knee, of all things— and he could hardly count the seconds until they were alone. When the interview was over, he practically dragged Louis into a dressing room to fuck him, and it was the hottest fuck in a long time. It was bare and juicy, raw and fast. Just lube and spit. He ripped Louis’ jeans down to his knees and bent him over a chair, shoved his leaking dick in while Louis swore at him. He understood then that Louis had ways, and he liked him like that. The way he teased him in public was always good, but finding that skin kink was a goddamn turn on.

After that, anything that crossed both of their bodies— a telephone cord, a string, some tape, a mic cord— was something Louis would use to edge him. Watching Louis stroke a damn inanimate object made him feel lightheaded, tight and right. He nearly took him off by touching a plant, for God’s sakes. Harry’s pressure would drop and his vision got blurry, and he had to stop himself from coming in his pants. Good thing his jeans were so plastered to his body, his huge boner stays tucked away, hidden from the camera’s view. Louis makes it hurt. It burns. It wants.

Now he unbuttons his jeans and feels the curly hairs trailing down, the rise of tension inside. _Should he just?_ His hand nearly wedges in, but he stops himself.

He feels antsy and angry. Louis should be here. He said he would. He fingers his knee, rubbing the hairs until it’s polished to a raw sheen. The skin is red and sore and almost ready to bleed through. It’s painful and it’s good. The pain takes the place of something else, far away, that he can’t have.

The door clicks, and he hears snatches of soft conversation. They’re coming in. He lies there waiting, jeans open, with the face of an angry Greek god. The door is held open while they maneuver all the shopping bags inside. They stop short when they see him.

“Oh,” she startles. “Hiya, Harry.” 

“Did you get my text?” he asks Louis, blatantly ignoring her.

Louis pulls out his phone, guiltily checking. “It was really noisy,” he says, glancing up. “I guess I wasn’t paying attention. I forgot. Sorry, Haz.”

“We were having lunch,” she adds. “Got carried away, didn’t we, Lou? The restaurant was so crowded, we could barely hear ourselves.”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” he snaps.

“Harry,” Louis says. His eyes warn. “Don’t.”

“I’ve been waiting,” he says accusingly. His eyes drop to his knee, which he’s covered with his hand. “We have the writing session this afternoon, with the band.”

Louis’ eyes widen. He crosses the room and gently pries Harry’s hand away. His face lights in recognition when he sees the red, worked-over, shiny surface of the knee, the threads unraveling around the rip in the jeans, the superficial criss-crossed pattern of scratches. He sees the opened button of Harry’s jeans, the thick elastic band of his crimson pants with its distinctive _Calvin Klein_ font.

“I’ll see you later, El,” Louis says without turning around. “You better go.”

“You sure?” She picks up her bags, nonplussed. “Everything under control, you two?”

“Everything’s perfect,” Louis answers.

She turns. “‘Kay then. I’m off.”

Louis’ eyes never leave him as the door closes. Harry waits, a salty rush building in his mouth. He can hear the tick of the air conditioner turning on, count the pulses on his wrists.

“Darling,” Louis says, moving toward him. “Have you been patiently waiting for me?”

The words scratch over him like sandpaper. He holds his breath. Louis pries his hand away from his jeans, and palms his knee. It’s warm and just a little bit painful. Louis is close enough to kiss.

“You smell like her.” His lower lip pushes out. He can’t help pouting; maybe Louis won’t like it.

He knows it’s unreasonable. It’s Louis’ obligation, and her job. This is what they always do. It isn’t any different than what he was doing this morning. But he can’t help it. Louis having to be with her pierces him somehow, yanks him by the nose. He’s a yoked animal and he hates it.

“I see you started without me,” Louis says, his voice clipped short, eyes directed toward his opened jeans. “I said I’d be back. Couldn’t you wait?”

”You didn’t answer your text,” he snarls.

“Oh babe.” Louis’ eyes are like cool fire.

“You forgot, Lou,” he says, voice slightly thick and rising. “We were supposed to meet back here.”

“Eleanor knows you don’t like her,” Louis answers. “She was dragging her feet shopping today. She knew you’d be upset.”

“Well, she’s right,” he retorts. “I hate her. I hate this whole thing. I hate that you smell like her— you were close to her, weren’t you?” 

When Louis comes close enough, he pulls him down roughly, and flips them over in bed, so he’s pinned him down. His chest lies on top of Louis’ and he’s smothering him, knocking the breath out of him. He towers over him and presses him into the mattress.

“I can’t breathe,” Louis stutters. “Haz— ”

”Be breathless,” Harry says. “For me.” 

His mouth stops Louis’ words, and he’s tasting him, pushing inside. A second later, Louis’ arms come up from the sides and clasp his back. It’s hard to tell whether Louis is hugging him or trying to pull him off; it feels the same. The button from his jeans digs into his groin. He’s licking Louis’ lips and tasting the hint of salt that’s seared into his memory. Unlike Louis, for him there’s never been another boy. It’s only been Louis, so everything tastes and smells only of him.

He pauses and lets Louis catch his breath. The heat of his want lingers on his open lips.

Sometimes, staring into Louis’ eyes, he thinks his own eye color is reflected back, so they are one. It’s a spooky feeling, as if he’s falling in so deeply, he will never belong to anyone else again. That kind of bond scares him. He’s only loved one person like this; it’s only ever been like this with Louis. It’s not always beautiful, or meant to be, or the soulmate thing they read about in fics. Sometimes it just feels like he can’t let go. Like there’s only one way for this turbulence to make sense, and that’s with Louis. Without him, the world is awash in zero gravity, the tides above and clouds beneath, and there is no bottom.

“I hate not being with you,” he says, his breath coming shallow and fast. “Hate it when you’re with someone else.”

“I know.” Louis brushes the back of his neck and plays with the curls there. They’re his favorite, because no one else can touch him there. “We all hate it.”

“Not like me,” he says. He pulls back and puts his palm on Louis’ chest, just to feel his heartbeat. “Everyone has a girl for a few months, but El’s been here forever. You kiss her on the lips; everyone’s seen it.” He’s being petulant; his mouth is pushed down. He feels even worse than he looks. He wishes he could erase himself, and take Louis with him.

Louis cocks his head, frowning. Those aren’t kisses, he thinks, just dry lips brushing past each other. Skin stamps for the press and the fans. Harry should know better— it’s been almost a year. He should be used to her by now. Louis knows he gets in these moods, and tries to invent ways to lift him out. Sometimes he finds him outside or down at the hotel gym at fuck o’clock in the morning, punishing his body, running the miles he shouldn’t run, losing the fat he can’t spare to lose. He pays for it the next day, sleeping through the day and missing work, gulping down energy boosters like he’s made of lightning, being fake happy, fake amped. And the hole in his jeans.... He has overworked himself now. He’s in pain, and he’s been waiting, and he’s on the edge of spilling over.

“Darling,” Louis strokes his cheek, knowing how much he’s suffering. “Come here.”

Louis licks his nose, just like he used to. The thrill of being licked is always a little overwhelming for him. It means being cared for, trusting. He angles his face and kisses Louis with his eyes closed, as Louis licks his mouth and tastes his body. He feels Louis’ rougher whiskers on his own soft, wispy facial hairs, his sandy roughness against his tremulous lips.

“Please, Lou,” he pleads. “Fuck me up.”

”Yes, my love.”

Louis palms the hole in his jeans and screws a finger in, touching off a nerve. His cock jerks at the acute pain, stuttering out a squirt of pleasure. Louis works his finger through the tight hole as he ruts his hips erratically, softly moaning. Louis digs, and his palm is warm and rough, polishing his sensitive skin. Louis’ mouth is at his throat, licking a salty swath of skin, sucking in a bruise at the base. A taut, hot wire connects the pain at the throat to the searing knee, going straight through his cock. His pelvis hums like a song.

“Ah,” he cries, in both pleasure and pain. “Damn.” 

“Alright?” Louis pauses at his chest, about to go down on his nipple. He nods, face screwed in the intensity of play. “Good.” Louis bites down on his nipple, and the puffy beige marshmallows jump in distress. His knees jerk up simultaneously as he doubles over.

“Lou,” he says. “Fuck.”

“Is it good?” Louis watches coolly.

He nods again, his nipples standing to attention, pebbly, dark, and hard. Louis takes one into his mouth, swirling his tongue over it, sucking on the areola to bring him moaning. His abdomen is contracted, and his hand is useless in Louis’ hair. He twists a finger through a strand and holds on tight, the nipple play almost too intense. It feels raw, drawing a string to his dick and jerking it up. Louis sucks his nipple in and keeps licking and biting it until his dick leaks. Louis knows how wet he can make Harry, how far to take the pain. The warmth works its way down his chest, swirling his tummy and perking up everything below. He almost can’t contain himself. He wants to shove his dick in Louis’ mouth now. The jeans feel too tight. His cock is looking for release. He wants it, wants to be fucked, wants it hard.

Louis pulls at his jeans and they are peeled off, along with the rest of his clothes, in record time.

“I wanna be spanked,” he says. “Hurt me.”

“Baby,” Louis says. “I’d love to.”

Louis crosses the room to the luggage case, and rummages around. They do this enough, when there’s time, but things aren’t always put back the right way, so it takes him a minute or two. Louis gathers everything and brings it back: the collar, condoms, lube, a paddle.

He’s already palming himself in bed, his balls velvety warm, his cock stiffly jutting out from his big, sinewy hand, the head of his cock covered in slinky precome. The dark, curly pubic hairs contrast with the creamy skin at his abdomen, where tattooed laurel leaves stand out starkly. His skin prickles as cool air passes over it, and he shudders.

“You look delicious, babe,” Louis says. “Good enough to eat.”

“Want your mouth on me,” he says hungrily.

He lifts his head to let Louis put his black leather collar on, adjusts it to the right tightness with two finger breadths to spare. It feels protective and right. He feels calmer already, a line of order from him to Louis to the universe, everything in its place.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Louis smiles, light and admiration in his voice.

“Am I?”

“The most beautiful boy in the world,” Louis says. “No comparison.”

“I think you are, too.” He breathes in deeply, contentment threading through his body. “The prettiest and nicest.”

Louis leans in for a kiss, soft and gentle, familiar and sweet. No matter how far along, there would always be time to exchange these kisses, and they would know there was still caring and gentleness. No matter what happened. Louis and Harry, Harry and Louis— they were one.

Louis’ hand pushes against his chest until he’s lying down, and then scoots a pillow under the small of his back. His eyes already look wild, its pale green irises unfocused and pupils dilated. His breaths are fast as tight as Louis bends down and takes his cock between his lips, licking a broad stripe up his hard shaft and mouthing the head, sucking it in. He shudders, gasps, and restrains himself from pushing it all in, the wet warmth unraveling him. The sight of Louis’ head bobbing between his legs is so good, and so right, he moans out loud, enough to fill the room and vibrate the walls. The low, raspy growl sounds feral. Louis’ delicate, tattooed hands circle the base of his cock, tugging quickly and lightly, dragging the skin over the thick cock. His hand doesn’t quite meet the mouth, but Louis’ lips are slowly, methodically, warmly works their way down.

“Lou,” he moans. “Oh, God…” He thrusts his hips up, sharply tightening his legs.

Louis’ tongue pushes the undersurface of the head and gets his nerves firing on all cylinders. The cock jumps. Another spurt of precome blurts out, wetting Louis in the face. Louis wipes it with the back of a hand and, locking eyes with him, sucks his fingers dry from root to tip, one by one.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, struggling.

“Tastes good,” Louis answers. “Tastes like you, baby.”

“Kiss me,” he says. “Let me have some.”

Louis lets him have it tongue first, the flavor of his mouth mixed with something saltier and more bitter, the tang of his own precome. He can’t help but spread his legs wider, yearning for his lover. He wants to feel Louis’ beard burn his skin. He wants Louis to flay him.

Louis lifts his calf onto his shoulder and touches inside his thigh. He runs his hand along the sweaty, hot skin, bends to kiss him along the way, dragging his beard along and marking up the creamy, ivory surface. Harry squirms, both irritated and tickled, and aroused, too, as Louis bends to suck in his balls. He’s licking and sucking patches of skin closer and closer to his hole, and jerking his cock slowly, leisurely. The combination makes him pump into Louis’ hand. He wants more, faster, harder.

“No,” Louis stills him. “Be patient, love. Wait.”

“Yes, Lou,” he stills, breathing hard. 

Louis takes him into his mouth once more, encasing most of his shaft in oral warmth and wetness. His hand supports Harry’s bum, squeezes it affectionately, and pushes it forward into his mouth. Harry understands and begins pumping earnestly, a flower building at the root of his spine until it’s a fast tide rolling to shore, ready to break. He looks down at Louis, simultaneously sucking his cock and encouraging the face fuck, and almost comes right then, for the filthiness of the picture and intensity of love he feels.

Feeling him, Louis suddenly stops, and puts his palm to his collar. He stills immediately.

“Harry,” Louis says. “You almost got started without me today.”

His abdomen is hard with want. “Yeah, I did.” He wants to keep going, but knows not to.

“You weren’t going to wait for me?”

Louis sits up, a hard cock between his legs. Harry can see the angry, red head rigid against his abdomen, shiny with precome. Louis wants it, too. He’s ready for it. It makes Harry spread his legs even more, to open up for him.

“I did,” he breathes hard. “I waited for you. I was good.”

“But you almost didn’t,” Louis says. “You almost let Eleanor and I catch you jerking off. Is that what you wanted?”

Harry lets the pleasure of shame seep over him like a blanket. Let Eleanor see his enormous cock, he thinks. Let her find him. She can’t compete with this. She’ll see how hopeless it is. Let her imagine Louis gagging for it, how his mouth hungers, how Louis’ throat and his cock are practically one unit. Let her imagine his come filling Louis’ mouth, and then try to kiss him; see if she can.

“Yeah.”

”Naughty,” Louis says. He runs his finger up the side of Harry’s cock.

“She should see us.” Harry flinches. His legs open wide. “I want her to.” 

“You’ve been a bad boy, Harry.” Louis reaches for the paddle on the side of the bed. “What a naughty thing to want.”

“I don’t care.” Harry turns on his side, bends his knees and rests his hand on his perky bum. “I want her to see. Maybe she’d never kiss you again.”

“You really are a bad boy.” Louis playfully taps his ass with two fingers, and bends to kiss the spot, moving his hand aside. “Are you jealous, love? You’re cute when you’re mad.” He licks the skin, marks a apricot-sized circle, and then bites, sinking teeth down. It isn’t a hard bite, but takes Harry by surprise. With his other hand, he has to anchor him down, knowing he will jump from it.

“Fuck,” Harry says. “I’ll need that bum later.”

“Then I’ll get a cushion for you,” Louis says. With a smile, the paddle swings down, leaving a red mark on the bite mark. It’s just hard enough to hurt. 

“Fuck!”

His ass quivers like butter pound cake. Louis is already kissing and soothing it, with tiny licks that feel like needles on fire.

Wham! The paddle comes down again. More kisses, encouragement, soothing. Louis puts his palm on the side of Harry’s hip and tries to take him through the sting. Once in a while, Louis’ erection pushes hard against his thigh, and he can already feel him inside, working him raw, sending him off. Again the paddle comes down. Each time, Harry braces himself, trying not to touch, holding off, insane with the images of red paddle marks that now cover his ass like sex trophies. His dick jerks with pleasure as he bites his lips hard enough to draw blood. 

“Ungggh!” 

“Alright, kitten?” Louis coos, rubbing and kissing the spots. “More?” 

Harry cringes, from the pain and the soothing, from Louis’ cooing and from anticipation. His legs spread further apart. He can’t wait any longer. 

“Wanna get fucked,” Harry whimpers. “Please.”

Louis shifts himself, and then he feels his hand, slick with lube, part his cheeks.

“Harry,” Louis asks. “Are we good? We can just have sex without any more playing, if you want.”

Harry stares into the distance, his eyes bright green and unfocused. He wants it. He needs it. He has been craving it since this morning. It is part of the ritual they have, so that he can bear it.

“I— I want it, Lou.”

“You sure?”

Harry nods. He rolls onto the pillow on his tummy, and lets his legs relax to the sides, knees slightly bent, the one knee sore and a little ragged, and his arms tucked at his sides.

“I trust you.”

Louis folds his body on top of Harry’s so that his smaller frame covers him. His weight rests easily and comfortably. He lays his cheek on the back, and kisses his skin in an absent-minded way. There are a few familiar freckles on his back, scattered like far-away stars. They belong to Harry, and in a way, they belong only to Louis, because he’s the only one who gets to see them like this. They guide him when he’s lost.

“A million years from now, when we’re old,” Louis says, “it’ll never get old for me. Hanging out with you. Having fun.”

“Suffering.”

Louis chuckles. “Yeah, maybe.” He kisses the dewy, salty skin.

“It makes it okay.”

Louis lifts his head. “What do you mean?”

“Suffering. Makes it okay to have the fun.” There’s no sass there. His voice is quiet and serious. The room has gone quiet but for the humming air conditioner. And then that, too, stops. Only silence.

Louis slides his arms around to hug him tight. He caresses him with his lips, leaving shadowy kisses. He hears the sadness and the desire. They’ve talked about it so often, they don’t talk about it anymore. The thing about bondage is, they play around the freedom. They’re both free to do what they want in bed. Be as bad as they want. Beat each other up. Leave bruises and cuts and scrapes that raise eyebrows, defy explanation. Their road crew looks at them, and wonder how they get so banged up— they must hate each other, Harry and Louis. The two of them— always these two— mortal enemies. Hurting each other as much as they can stand it— in the room that they share. In their bed. With their own vibrators, collars, toys. It’s play _in here,_ because it’s not play _out there_. It’s never play _out there_.

“I love you.”

“Loved you first.”

Harry turns his head three-quarters, so they can kiss. Kissing him is always a mortal affair, making Louis hot and bothered but also full of sweetness, filling him with a desire for more life so he can give it to this lovely boy. Louis sucks in the plump, flushed muscle, tastes the raw edges where Harry has chewed the skin to bits. Harry’s breath is short and hot, and his hunger is violent. His need is urgent. Now, now. Their bodies are perfect together. The kiss has made Louis hard.

“Harry…”

“Fuck me,” Harry says. He pushes his bum against Louis, nudging him. “I wanna come so hard. Make me come. Louis. Please, Louis.” 

Without another word, Louis rolls on a condom, and slicks up his hands and cock with lube. He pushes Harry’s cheeks apart and inserts a finger, feeling the muscles snug around him, shivering. Slowly he advances, curving and gentle, finding the point that makes him sigh, then stretch his legs out with a moan.

“Yeah,” he moans. “Yeah. There.”

Louis brushes his fingertips where he knows it feels good, where it makes him harder and wetter, where it drives him to the edge. Then he takes his finger out, and lines himself up. Harry knows, too. He parts his legs and lifts up on his knees, so he’s open and ready. Louis slowly drives in an inch at a time, back and forth, their bodies moving in rhythm, until he’s stretched out, comfortably taking him.

The fit is tight and fills Harry’s belly. The stretch is still a little painful, but once Louis starts moving, he settles, biting on the sheets so as not to moan too loud. He’s still huffing out rhythmic noises, little cries of pleasure that are choked in his throat. The collar keeps the sounds ringing inside. He hears Louis, too, his high-pitched moans filling the room, the words of praise and encouragement going straight to his cock, straight to the blood that fills him, straight to the happiness in his head, straight to the tingling at the base of his spine that wants to please, and release, and make a goddamn, awful mess.

Louis is speeding up, and the loud crack on his ass hurts so good. He clenches and yells into the sheet, and when Louis asks, “Go on?” he can only nod, his eyes tearing but his cock twitching. His hand goes to it, the shaft entirely covered in precome now. He wastes no time slicking it up, jerking hard as Louis paddles again.

“Unghhh,” Harry grunts. “Fuck... fuck...” 

The paddle’s force shoots right into his hand, hitches everything forward. Louis has grabbed his hips with both hands, his thumbs over the paddle marks, and is pulling out and slamming back in fast and hard. The bed rocks. Louis’ hips jerk forcefully and rhythmically, and it only takes him a few more pumps to come, his cock pulsing deep inside Harry, the warmth of it like tides rushing down. Harry’s hand flies in response. Louis reaches up to touch his collar.

“Tell me when, Harry.”

He’s frantic. His wants and needs have come to a climax.

“Now. Now.”

Louis pulls on the collar just as the come starts shooting forth. He lightens up on his hand, lets the muscular waves overtake him, lets the beast out. Harry moans in his deepest voice, not caring who can hear it. Let them all hear how fucking good their sex is. He’s seeing all the stars in the universe, colors drifting above him, his chest expanding slowly with resistance. He’s flying, soaring. It goes on and on. The thick ropes of come overshoots his slender, elegant hand, drips over the cross tattoo, soaks the sheets, wets the pillow beneath. It shoots up toward his chest in shiny droplets, nearly to his chin. Fuck, that was amazing. Louis is cooing to him, singing to him, and it sounds like a song.

Louis always sounds like a song. He is the only song.

Louis withdraws and takes the condom off, ties it up and throws it in the trash. The room smells like come and fucking. He thinks it smells lovely— all traces of her perfume wiped away. The boys should be knocking on the door any minute. It wouldn’t be the first time they smell a room full of male sex.

Louis lies down, snuggles up behind him and holds him, kissing his shoulder and neck, one hand tucking his curls behind his ear. He caresses him, making sure they are skin to skin, inseparable.

He wants to be sure, he wants to know. He wants, he wants, he wants. It’s a bare patch that wants to be held and kissed, a hole in his mind that has been ripped open, is hurt, wants solace. It’s a melody that wants a cadence. He wants to be unhurt, unripped.

Instead, he writes songs. And Louis sings them.

 

 

 

 

 

Thank you for reading.

This story was inspired, in part, by Harry's tour, and the songs he sang: Just a Little Bit of Your Heart, Girl Crush, and Woman. I wanted to try to tell a story from H's point of view with as much interiority as possible, similar to the last chapter in my fic, [Yellow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12351378/chapters/28093602). The story is not based on real life events and is not factual. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a Wordplay prompt challenge that a group of us are participating in for the prompt "polish". To read the amazing fics that were written by the others on this prompt, [click here](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/polish/works), and to see all fics written as part of the challenge, [click here](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/wordplay_fic_challenge/works) or find the masterpost for this year’s challenge [here](https://wordplayfics.tumblr.com/post/175608230403/wordplay-2018-every-week-a-prompt-is-chosen-using).
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you to the mods for giving me the opportunity to think about fic in some different ways. Love to all.


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